August 16th, 2016

Mitch:

"This is fucking ridiculous." I slide the fridge drawer closed harder than is necessary and stare into the middle shelf in frustration. I just bought that kale and it just up and disappeared like magic, like a white and brown rabbit in a hat. Jerome has obviously been pilfering what he calls 'that nasty healthy shit' out of my fridge to take home to his damn bunny when I don't go with him, whether it's because he's too lazy to make his own trip to the store or because he doesn't know what half of the items on the list Mat gave him even are. He wouldn't know a bag of kale from a head of iceberg lettuce from a bag of cole slaw mix unless someone else explicitly told him what it was.

That's my first clue.

I check the shelves again to try to find something that won't be disgusting with blueberries, banana, almond milk, and vanilla protein powder. Carrots and broccoli aren't it. Neither is the romaine. The only other green thing I can see is a jar of jalapeños, and I'm not here to make a death cup. I resign myself to my usual back-up – the bag of metallic-tasting frozen spinach in the freezer that I bought after this bullshit happened the first time. The crueler side of me wants to stock up on something that would induce an episode of bunny diarrhea, since buying twice as much just leads to twice as much obvious theft he won't cop to. I'm not sure how to win this fight with him, unless I can somehow convince his enabler to stop helping him.

I use the metal handle of the grill spatula to break off a chunk of sick frozen greens and add them to the blender, briefly wondering what the hell Alex gets up to at four in the morning that he can sleep through blending ice and screaming fire trucks. I catch myself absently rubbing the faint pink bubbles just under the waistline of my swim shorts again, breathing out in frustration at the dull ache at the touch. I don't like having limitations. I let my shirt fall back down when I reach out to stop the blender. I turn and half-check out the back window while I pour the green-blue mixture into a protein tumbler bottle, a feeble attempt to keep the swarms out of my breakfast. The less ratty pool lounger isn't where it was yesterday. At least this makes my mission to stop Jerome an iota more straightforward. I tilt my head up and tap the bottom of the blender, catching the last few frozen chunks in my mouth. Ultimately unsatisfying.

I walk around the island bar and silently open and shut the back door, leaving my bottle on the table by the door before heading over to the pool shallows; it makes my twice-daily grind easier without a yoga mat. I pretend to be occupied but she's obviously watching me with a self-satisfied smile.

"You're up early. Who died?"

"No one I know of. Who'd you kill?" Her smile widens a little bit more and she pulls her glasses halfway down her nose to peer over them at me, squinting in the bright and blistering 9 o'clock Florida sun.

"If I told you, that would make the conviction too easy, wouldn't it?" I sit on the edge of the pool and dip my left foot in, mildly surprised but pleased to find that the water is actually heated instead of ice cold. Then again, that might say more about the weather than the solar panels.

"I thought you were going to be a nutritionist, not a lawyer."

"Dietitian."

"Doctor."

"Dietitian."

"Professional vlogger."

"Dietitian." Her bright white smile never fades. How many times has she had to answer that question and defend her answer?

"It looks like the only one you're giving diet advice to is Jerome's paper shredder." Abby slides the glasses back up her nose and crosses one leg over the other defiantly.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Just because he doesn't pilfer your shit doesn't mean he needs to take all of mine. Feeding his side dish was never part of the deal when I said he could have a pet."

"It sounds like someone's jealous."

"Of what?"

"His 'side dish.' " Her fingers go up in sarcastic air quotes and all I can do is snort in laughter and climb down on the pool shelf on my knees.

"Maybe if he got a second one and made slippers out of them. Look, all I'm asking is that you ask him to only take one bag when you try to explain the difference between kale and spinach to him for the seventh time. I've given up on stopping him. Does that sound fair?" She gives a wide shrug and puts her arms behind her head, her chest puffing up in her orange-pink bikini top.

"I don't know when you think I spend all of this time talking to your boyfriend. I guess I could give it a try." The devious grin is back. She keeps all of her own food away squirreled from the rest of us in the mini fridge in her off-limits apartment-esque room, having taken over the room across from Jerome's musty, chicken dildo-scented disaster with layers of fresh plaster and a gentle waft of Hawaiian flowers. As a routine photo partner and part-time video co-star, she brings in a salary large enough to cover her tuition and free room and board, with the added bonus of enough sadistic challenge video ideas to keep the rest of us at our growing communal office guessing. It's a shame that only about half of them end up being recorded for YouTube. Doing the PG dance for little kids really puts a kink in our better plans.

"Thank you." I put my hands in front of me in the water and start grinding out push-ups, knowing that she's probably still watching me while she unfurls and rewraps her fluffy bun of smooth brown hair. I fight the urge to look back up at her. I won't give her the satisfaction of telling me off for staring at her perfect lack of tan lines. I concentrate on counting out my reps, thirty at a time for five sets. I sink down on my stomach between sets, feeling the moderate ache in my lower stomach from the pressure of my body weight. How much longer is it going to take before this fucking surgery is going to stop haunting me?

"You know, you should be doing those at an incline with fewer reps." I look up at her sarcastically, annoyed that I'm panting like an undignified dog after my efforts. "It's just an idea. I didn't realize you liked being a fucking anole lizard." Grin. I finish the set before I respond.

"I'm going for bulk, not strength. I need more reps." I sink back down, hyperaware of the empty fabric at the front of my shorts as she makes a face implying that I need as much bulk as I can get. "Why are you so concerned with my wellbeing all of a sudden, sweetness?"

"I thought that's what you dragged me all the way down here for, boss – helping you get some of your shit together."

"You're not wrong." I sit back on my feet, then rotate my knees forward until I'm sitting with my legs bent in front of me. This is the worst part of my entire day, cooking and paying bills included. I lay back on the shelf and let the water rush over my ears as I sit halfway under the surface of the water. It's so peaceful. I'm aware of the legs of my swim trunks riding up my thighs, and part of me likes the feeling of her watching me.

I want her to want me.

An unbecoming groan comes out of my mouth with the first sit-up, the cut, torn, and battered muscles in my abdomen creaking and straining to do what I demand that they do. Having someone cut into you and use a metal rake to rip your muscles apart from each other to get to your organs isn't something you get over easily. My other organs still haven't completely settled into their new homes lower down and all of this movement is reopening all of their saltiness again. I only manage to strain through three sets of ten before I just lay back on the shelf and pant. Part of me is embarrassed. Part of me doesn't give a shit.

Apparently, I stayed under the water a little too long.

"Are you okay?" I brush my wet hair back off of my forehead and wipe the chemical water out of my eyes. Abby is halfway sitting up, watching me with her sunglasses in her hand.

"So you do care. Of course I'm okay." The back of my brain calculates how much I should tell her. Obviously very little, but not nothing.

"That didn't look fine. No offense, but that looked like shit, you damn showoff."

"That's what happens when you have an appendectomy and try to get back in shape. You lose your gains and it hurts to move." I've practiced this lie. She isn't a surgeon. It accounts for the scar and gives me an excuse for this repeated pitiful performance. I don't know what to make of her facial expression.

"Maybe you shouldn't be pushing it so much, Mitch. What did your doctor tell you?"

"Nothing. He just wanted a couple grand more for a follow-up." That isn't a lie. She seems less concerned now, if that's what she was feeling before, and more irritated than anything.

"You should go see someone about it if you're still in pain. It's been how many months?"

"Only four and a half. He said it would take a while. I believe him." She turns and puts her feet back up on the lounger, leaning back to enjoy the sun again. "What, were you going to jump in and save me?"

"If you laid there like a beached whale any longer, I would have felt compelled to."

"Did you just call me a whale?" She shrugs and crosses one foot over the other. I climb out of the water and drip my way around the pool to grab my sweaty protein shake bottle, checking for extra flying protein before I pop open the lid. I lean against the patio cover beam next to her. "Starting in with fat jokes already, and it isn't even lunch time yet."

"Maybe you should lay off the chicken nuggets. Not everyone is a living ATP molecule like Jerome." She smirks and I lean over and flick a handful of water on her, but she seems unbothered. I can feel her watching me as I partially enjoy my gritty, metallic meal replacement that tastes more like Soylent Green every day. The beams of sunlight dance across the almost perfectly still water, and I look across the porch to the footstool with the storage compartment underneath, hoping my good swim goggles are still where I left them and in one piece. "You know it won't work on me."

"What?"

"This try-hard masculinity bullshit. We both know you think you're cute, but you're not and you're not my type."

"I never said I was. What makes you think I'm out here for you in particular?" She lets out a single laugh and flicks a stray water drop back at me from her arm. She might be the only Canadian I've ever seen who actually tans instead of breaking out in rashes of freckles.

"Since when are you even out of bed before ten o'clock? Pretty soon I won't have any time without you traipsing around with your thunder feet."

"You've got some pretty harsh words for your landlord today."

"Is that why Jerome only sleeps over part-time now? He called you a 'fucking fuckity fuck fucker' too many times?" I nod with a mouthful of metal meal, glad to see that it's halfway gone now. I swallow loudly and wish I had sunglasses on, too. How is her skin so lewdly shiny?

"Shhh... You'll upset Agnes with all those dirty birdy words. That's not what a lady sounds like!" She laughs again. "We both felt it would be a good idea if he and Rose Red took a break from each other. It was getting a little too serious. And expensive." There's a brief, somewhat uncomfortable pause and she puts her head back, even though I know she's still watching me, probably trying to catch me staring at her chest like everyone else who passes through this house does. I wish I had sunglasses to make this less awkward.

"So you two are still together."

"You had doubts?"

"Well, he doesn't live here full-time anymore, and I do."

"Under that logic, I only live here part-time, too."

"Plus, I can't help but feel like you're trying to come onto me, in your own weird, geeky little way." I pretend to be offended and clutch my freezing, wet bottle to my chest. I feel all of my muscles tense and my nipples would be hard as stone if they were still connected to the nerves and muscles under my skin. This is one of those rare times when I'm grateful for my plentiful scar tissue.

"Ouch. So what if I am?"

"Little boys aren't my type, Mitch. You all should know that by now." The right side of her mouth arches up in a wide smirk, daring me to fall into whatever trap she's setting to embarrass me about my dick size.

"I know what you're into. What if I said I could do it, too?" The glasses climb up on top of her head and she looks up at me doubtfully, and with pity. There's a challenge burning in her blue-green eyes.

"Are you serious? I've heard that line before, and all the other ones, too. I'm not into dudes, bro."

"What if I'm not just another dude, bro."

"Sick, bro."

"You think I'm joking. Anything you can do... I can do better." She laughs and I take another drink while I watch her eyes trail down my stomach to rest on my crotch, as if she could tell anything from that.

"What do you want me to say? Beg you to strip tease for me? Oh, I guess you already have."

"Do you want me to finish? I can arrange that for you." The amused curiosity of a lesbian who had been subjected to hundreds of unwanted and unsolicited dick pics flickers across her face. She weighs the emotional scarring of baiting me into humiliation against the torture of her having to see another pitiful limpet.

"If you show me your dick, I'm going to knock the shit out of you."

"What if that's what I want, huh? Who's going to win this time, Abbs?" She holds her sunglasses in her teeth and unclips her mane of hair, letting it fall over her shoulders and ruffling through it like she always does when she's thinking through something. She finishes and looks straight into my eyes with a daring look. She's out for my blood now.

"Then strip." I set down my finally empty tumbler as she watches with her best intimidating bluff. I slowly pull the drawstring on one side and feel the knot come undone, pretending to strip for her as her eyes sarcastically zero in, eyebrows arched and lips pursed. I reposition my feet farther apart and hook my right thumb into the middle to pull my shorts down in the front, letting ghostly pink flesh see the scorching light of day. "See, you're a fucking liar, you damn pervert."

"What's the rush?" I brush past the wet, trimmed curls and around my dick, tracing my fingertips along the dividing line before gradually pulling the outer lips apart as vulgarly as possible, wondering how closely I look like the girls she's used to dating. I carefully move my hand around in a circle for a better view, watching with spiteful glee as the snark drains out of her face to be replaced with something a little more than amusement. She got what she wanted. "I think that's enough of a show for one day. I'll link my Patreon below if you want to buy pics. They'll last longer." I pull my trunks back up and retie the knot, enjoying watching her tear her eyes away from the spot she was fixated on.

"Why me?" She blinks at me, glancing back down at my fingers as I tie.

"Because I like you and you don't take anyone's shit."

"First of all, you have Jerome. Second of all, how do you know I won't tell anyone?"

"Jerome might be more okay with it than you think. And because Jerome." She blinks again with a coy smile and puts her sunglasses back on, leaning back on the lounger on her elbows to appear less invested in the conversation.

"I don't do threesome pornos, if that's what you're asking for. I could go the rest of my life without seeing another dick."

"Never asked to you do that."

"I'm also not going to be the slut who helps you come out and break up with your boyfriend."

"I think we're all better than that."

"Then the question is if he's actually okay with you dating two people."

"Are you?"

"I'm not dating anyone." I laugh at her stubbornness as her hair blows lightly in the breeze, leading her to grab it to wrap it around itself in a messy bun to keep it out of the way. She's nervous today.

"If I were to – hypothetically – ask you out, would you ever remotely consider any hypothetical proposal I might make to you?" I'm trying to cover all of my bases here, and she taps her chin with her fingers sarcastically, pretending to think it over.

"If you were to, hypothetically, get Jerome to tell me directly to my face that he would be okay with you hypothetically dating two people, I might hypothetically consider getting dinner with you alone somewhere other than Wow's Chicken. Is that vague enough for you?"

"Sounds just peachy."

"Are you happy now, you horny asshole?"

"Not yet. But soon."

"I'll believe it when I hear it with my own two ears, fuckboy." At least I can count on her not to remix my pronouns, unlike what most of the people in my daily sphere would probably do. It's amazing how much you can learn about someone's politics by stalking their years-old Twitter and Tumblr activity. I give her the 'okay' sign and unceremoniously dive into the pool, splattering her and her water-free sunscreen with plenty of chlorinated water. My eyes sting without the goggles, but I needed something to break the tension of the moment. When I resurface at the deep end, she throws her middle finger up in the air at me with a comical Jigglypuff frown. I grin and climb out to give her as much of a show as she always does us. After all, it's only fair to reciprocate the fun. With my safety goggles back in place, it's time for my daily endless laps, my one reasonable substitute for running through the busy streets in this shit soup of a state.

Suddenly, it hits me.

'Well, fuck.'

After weeks of planning my five-star proposal to Abby, it succeeds while my one-star plan to protect my food from the rabid rabbit failed miserably.

I can't shut down their conspiracy once and for all.

I need them to be friends. That means I can't rely on her to keep Jerome from stealing my vegetables to give to his damn bunny. The fucking bunny wins again.

I'm starting to understand why Mat likes bunnies so much.